The daylight dimmed without a sound,
a sweet and silent calm seeped through,
and in the gazebo’s shade of blue,
the moonlight’s paleness trickled down.
Your hand, all nerves, kept breaking
petals from a rose in agitation,
urged on by the inclination
of some secret, steady aching.
And when, holding the flower that resembled
a soft, white bird that trembled
like a prisoner caught in your fist,
cautiously, you came so close,
your eyes handed me that rose,
and I felt the sensation of a kiss.
Juana de IbarbourouTranslated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2013